The queen of the summer,
She sits on her throne,
And every new comer
Her beauty must own.
Dick waits upon her,
A minister sage,
I’m maid of honour,
And pussy’s her page.
Let’s have a game of play,
But Jane sha’n’t come,
She told of Walter
Because he picked a plum.
“O I’m very sorry,
I won’t do it again,”
“We can’t trust you,
Tell-tale Jane.”
Underneath the soft green grass
Little birdie lies,
Who used to sing so merrily
Above in summer skies.
Sadly we have made his grave
Where the roses blow,
Never more he’ll sing to us
As to school we go.